Why do you hate Italians?

I don't actually hate Italians. It is just not much happens to me in a day. Then you try to make something interesting out of fairly boring shit...and well I guess I talk a lot of smack to make up for it.

I mean I totally respect the Italians. They make tiny cups of coffee. Their country is shaped like a funk-me boot. What is not to love?

Today, on the other hand, all kinds of cool stuff happened. I watched a nurse do an IV push of Adenosine. This drug is designed to stop a beating heart in order to readjust a rhythm. Every once in awhile I lose sight of why Western medicine is so cool, but then something like this comes along. Health through clean living, proper eating, exercise, and meditation. Why bother? Your heart gets out of whack, we will cold stop that shit and get it back on track.

Then I got to care for a guy with an all-time record number of tubes coming out of him. Moving from head-to-toe:
Nasogastric tube
Dobhoff
tracheostomy
chest tube
G-tube
J-tube
Picc Line
Foley Catheter

There were a few orificies left, but we pretty well covered them after even making a few new ones of our own.

And then we had the lunatic:

Jake: You want to watch this or something different?
Patient Z: Well you got cartoons and cartoons about n------
Jake: O.K. I am fine with this

Jake: Your wife will be here in a little while.
Patient Z: I could be here till 6 with my dick in my ass
Jake: (no comment)

They don't teach you a response to that one in nursing school. At least not in my bachelor's program.

p.s. Allesandro Pettachi is a lightweight

Thimblerig

So in the last two months I have broken two bikes and fixed three. Does it turn me off of two wheel transportation?

Well my pocket book would be the best person to answer that. But actually, it is a little frightening to consider my pocket book anthropomorphized. The best description would most likely be a quiet dainty church going 73 year old woman with fits of heroin abuse. Not pretty. So best not to ask anyway. Rather lets just extend the two wheel addiction, because certainly it does feed itself.

I broke my commuter bike, a Marin Novato, by almost tearing the frame in two by climbing a hill on the way to school. But the company replaces in with a Point Reyes frame and a disc break. So you guys are like paying me money to destroy products that I buy from you?

Also there is a certain synchronicity that can't be avoided with the whole thing. Last year I bent my Jamis Ventura's back wheel making my last ascent into Monroe WI. Hot bike, Thanks Dad! After many months of winter I finally fixed it, just in time to send the Marin to the factory for a possible warranty replacement.

And then just two days ago in Fitchburg, south of Madison, I am humming along on the Jamis. Now I have been feeling rough the first half hour out. Heart rate up around 160, but my speed is puttering just south of twenty miles an hour. Then that track comes in. You know, that fucking sweet ass trance track that gets your arm hair standing up. You never admit to your friends (What? Dude that synth line is weak! I don't listen to shit like that), but secretly your palms get a little sweaty and the foot a little heavier on the gas. The body just starts to feel it and I drop the torque down on the bike. Not the crazy hammering, with the legs and arms wobbily, trying to find a rhythm out of the new application of power. No, the smooth roll on, steady torque increase out of the corner.

SPRONG!, Another spoke in the rear wheel goes. That makes a 10 mile ride back home with a self-braking bike. Once every revolution the bent wheel rubs on the brake. The only time I have been passed by a Colagno. Hamstrung, I admit defeat. Burning italian bikes is my trade.

But two days later the Marin returns from the factory. Full dealer warranty on the frame. Oh no, it wasn't the weather, it wasn't any bmx bullshit. That was funhouser tearing your shit apart. Now give me a new frame, I got some Italians to hunt.

Impressions of Germany

I guarantee that this picture is not photoshopped!1!11 Yes. This is a man (husky) wearing a Brett Favre (pronounced Farve) jersey walking into a Walmart Supercenter. Strange. Not in Wisco, baby, but check out the greeting under the Walmart sign. Herzlich wilkommen. Hearty Welcome? Anna? Anyway, whatever it means, further proof is the BMW featured prominently next to the goofy looking van. Both distinctly german. No matter where you go, there you are, eh?

Apparently public construction comes complete with spikes. You have to love a country that has such a small concern for lawsuits.

So yah, didn't we demilitarize these fucking crazy krauts? A tank speed limit?
Good Lord, Ma get the gun. Those wurst-eaters are at it again.

Jake with death

So after seeing my brother's lovely plug for me (Thanks Dan!), I got to thinking. Not only about my horrible literary skills, no, the fact I type at later then midnight after either multiple drinks or a work shift forgive me of that. But about bigger things. Hey, how come it always has to be Jake against the world. Sure a bunch o' mofo's are after me, but still sometimes things come together, rather than fall apart. Regardless of what laws of thermodynamics dictate.

Sometimes I work with Death. Is it such a bad thing? That swing into the great unknown?

My Dad asked me how I felt after hearing one of my first patients died. Did I feel bad? "No", I said, "it was a good death." She died at home. She died happily. She died trying to make everyone around her happy. Few patients have the positive attituted she had. When you cared for her she tried to make YOU happy. What a woman.

Still, it is easy to say that it didn't affect me. Shit. I didn't fucking see her die. She was happy when she saw me. Her family wasn't fucking balling their eyes out to me, what do I care?

No, what is difficult is seeing the widow of 56 years telling you how fantastic her husband was while he is lying dead in front of you. And then she breaks down and sobs. Try to maintain your cool then. Be that rock, son. Go on.

Yah, you got to get a little misty eyed. O.K. so you've been with this guy for over twice as long as I have been alive? Yah, there is no way I can compete with that.

This is when you fall back on your training. Theraputic communication. Echo their thoughts. Be silent, let them communicate. What can you possibly offer this woman from your own experience that will be of any use? Should I rely on my extensive MarioKart experience? Your husband dying reminds me of this time I got fucking housed by my cousin on the Nintendo 64. Everyone knows pain, but there are orders of magnitude.

So I go to work. Make good wishes for the departed, start cleaning him up. Make him look dignified.

People always talk about dying with dignity. Dignity?

dig·ni·ty ( P ) Pronunciation Key (dgn-t)
n. pl. dig·ni·ties

1. The quality or state of being worthy of esteem or respect.
2. Inherent nobility and worth: the dignity of honest labor.
3. 1. Poise and self-respect.
   2. Stateliness and formality in manner and appearance.

I hate to break it to ya'll, but no one looks stately or formal when dead. You look like a fish. A fish that lived a long fucking time and can rest now. No diginity. Tired.

I think the best people die with CONSIDERATION

con·sid·er·a·tion ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kn-sd-rshn)
n.

1. 1. Careful thought; deliberation: We will give your proposal consideration.
   2. A result of considering; an opinion or a judgment: Is it your consideration that I should apply?
2. A factor to be considered in forming a judgment or decision: Safety is the most important consideration in choosing a car.
3. A treatment or account: The essay begins with a brief consideration of the history of the problem.
4. Thoughtful concern for others; solicitude.
5. High regard; esteem.

Dignified is a half hour in front of a mirror carefully adjusting your hair to that too perfect windswept look. Consideration is money in the bank. Years of good living followed by a good death.

So yah, I think that is enough for tonight. I didn't even ramble about what I wanted to ramble about. But that is o.k. This blog was supposed to be about a fucking jail anyway. Have I written anything yet about a jail? Have I? I can't remember.

I'll settle for exotic. But how much of that would I trade for a little bit of studious?

Always glad to incite violence in my family. Good jab. Now lets see the CROSS!

Too bad Dan took off his black wool coat, cause we had quite the theme going